Pieces of flesh fell from beneath the towel, and hit the floor, hissing. He threw the dirtied towel down with them, and looked back up at Jerichau. Remnants of the illusion clung to his features here and there, but the actor beneath was quite recognizable: Shadwell the Salesman, naked as the day he was born. He tore off the white wig he'd worn, and tossed that down too, then snapped his fingers. A cigarette, already lit, was placed in his hand. He drew on it deeply, wiping a glob of ectoplasm from beneath his eye with the ball of his hand.

'Were you at the meeting?' he asked.

'Of course he was,' Immacolata said, but she was silenced with a sharp look from Shadwell. He pulled at his foreskin, quite unselfconsciously.

'Was I good?' he said. 'No, no, of course I was,'

He peered at his pudenda over his shiny gut. 'Who the fuck are you?' he said.

Jerichau kept his mouth shut.

'I asked you a question,' said Shadwell. He put the cigarette between his lips and spread his arms, so that his dressers could finish his toilet. They proceeded to towel the remaining ectoplasm from his face and body, then began to powder his bulk.

'I know him,' said Hobart.

'Do you indeed?'

'He's the woman's partner. He's with Suzanna,'

'Really?' said Shadwell. 'Did you come to make a sale, is that it? See what we'd pay you for her?'

'I haven't seen her .. ,' Jerichau said.

'Oh yes you have,' said Shadwell. 'And you're going to tell us where to find her.'

Jerichau closed his eyes. Oh Gods, make this end, he thought; don't let me suffer. I'm not strong. I'm not strong.

'It won't take long,' Shadwell murmured.

'Tell him,' said Hobart. Jerichau cried out as his bones creaked.

'Stop that!' Shadwell said. The grip relaxed a little. 'Keep your brutalities out of my sight,' said the Salesman. His voice rose. 'Understand me?' he said. 'Do you? Do you understand?'

'Yes, sir.'

Shadwell grunted, then turned to Immacolata, his sudden fury just as suddenly dissipated.

'I think your sisters might enjoy him,' he said. 'Get them here, will you?'

The Incantatrix uttered a summons, which came from her misshapen lips like breath on an icy morning. Shadwell returned his attention to Jerichau, speaking as he dressed.

'There's more than pain to be suffered,' he said lightly, 'if you don't tell me where I may find the carpet.'

He hoisted up his trousers, and buttoned up the fly, throwing an occasional glance in Jerichau's direction.

'What are you waiting for?' he said to the prisoner. 'Some bargain or other?'

He put on his tie, while his attenders tied his shoe-laces.

'You'll wait a long time, my friend. I don't barter these days. I don't offer treats. My days as a Salesman are numbered.'

He took the jacket from his attendant, and slipped it on. The lining shimmered. Its powers were familiar to Jerichau from Suzanna's stories; but it seemed Shadwell had no desire to win a confession from him by that means.

'Tell me where the carpet can be found,' he said, 'or the sisters and their children will undo you nerve by nerve. Not a difficult choice, I would have thought.'

Jerichau made no reply.

There was a chill wind from the corridor.

'Ah, the ladies,' said Shadwell; and Death flew in at the door.

V.

THE HOURS PASS.

1.

And still he didn't return.

It was three-thirty in the morning. She had stood by the window as the hour grew late; watched drunkards brawl, and two unlikely whores ply their desperate trade, until a police vehicle cruised by and they were either arrested or hired. Now the street was deserted, and all she had to watch were the lights changing at the crossroads - green, red, amber, green - without a vehicle passing in either direction. And still he didn't return.

She turned over a variety of explanations. That the meeting was still going on, and he couldn't slip away without arousing suspicion; that he'd found friends amongst the audience, and was talking over old times with them. That this; that that. But none of her excuses quite convinced her. Something was wrong. She and the menstruum both knew it.

They had made no contingency plans, which was stupid. How could they have been so stupid, she asked herself over and over. Now she was left pacing the narrow room not knowing what to do for the best; not wanting to leave in case he returned the minute after and discovered her gone, yet fearful of staying in case he'd been captured and was even now being beaten into telling them where she could be found. Time was she would have believed the best. Contented herself that he would come back in a while, and waited patiently for him. But experience had changed her view of things. Life was not that kind.

At four-fifteen she started to pack. The very fact that she'd accepted that something was amiss, that she and the Weave were in jeopardy, made the adrenalin flow. At four-thirty she began to take the carpet downstairs. It was a lengthy and cumbersome business, but in recent months she'd shed every ounce of fat, and in the process discovered muscles she'd never known she had. And again the menstruum was with her, a body of will and light that made possible in minutes what should have taken hours.

Even so there was a hint of dawn in the sky by the time she threw their bags (she had packed for him too) into the back of the car. He would not come back now, she told herself. Something had detained him, and if she wasn't quick it would detain her too.

Fighting tears, she drove away, leaving another unpaid bill behind her.

2.

It might have given Suzanna some small satisfaction if she could have seen the look on Hobart's face when, less than twenty minutes after her departure, he arrived at the hotel the prisoner had named.

He'd spilled a good deal while the beasts had their way with him: blood and words in equal measure. But the words were incoherent; a babble from which Hobart wrestled to extract any sense. There was talk of the Fugue, of course, amongst the sobs and the bleatings; and of Suzanna too. Oh my lady, he kept saying, oh my lady; then fresh sobbing. Hobart let him weep, and bleed, and weep some more, until the man was near to death. Then he asked the simple question: where is your lady? And the fool answered, his mind past knowing who asked the question, or indeed if he'd answered it.

And here, in the place the man had spoken of, Hobart now stood. But where was the woman of his dreams? Where was Suzanna7 Gone again: flitted away, leaving the door-handle warm and the threshold still mourning her shadow.

It had been very close this time, though. He'd almost taken her. How long before he had her mystery netted, once and for all, her silver light between his fingers? Hours. Days at the most.

'Nearly mine,' he said to himself. He clutched the book of faery-tales close to his chest, so that none of its words could slip away, then left his lady's chamber to go whip up the hunt.

VI.

HELLO, STRANGER.